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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22554574">Mr. Misunderstood</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jurassicparker/pseuds/jurassicparker'>jurassicparker</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Dresden Files - Jim Butcher</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study, F/M, Gen, Guitars, Mostly Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 17:07:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,860</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22554574</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jurassicparker/pseuds/jurassicparker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry Dresden, through the music of Eric Church.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Harry Dresden/Karrin Murphy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Mistress Named Music</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Got tired of writing my current Gravity Falls fic, so I'm taking a break. Eric Church is one of my favorite artists, and his album Mr. Misunderstood seemed to relate really well to Harry. So, song by song, let's watch Harry.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>With a guitar full of freedom, and a head full of lines,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>That nightlife full of demons is one hell of a ride.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>My hand ached, but I pressed through. I had almost memorized the guitar solo for Smoke On the Water, and I would be damned if I gave up now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Giving up’s not my specialty, anyway.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So far, my musical repertoire consisted of acoustic versions of I Love The Night, Sympathy For the Devil, Under the Sea (at Maggie’s request) and the beginning of Stairway to Heaven. Murphy had threatened to shove the guitar up my… well… if I played that last song one more time. She’s friendly like that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Thomas had requested that I learn Burnin’ For You. I politely turned him down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>My hand had been healing nicely. It was still an unfriendly shade of red, and it still looked a little melted, but I didn’t have to be scared of being caught in public without my glove now. From a distance, my hand just looked like it had been sunburned instead of, well, burn-burned.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Besides, according to Butters, my burnt hand added an allure of mystery. According to everyone else, it looked like a lobster, so I took Butters’s word for it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, the only reason I kept my hand in great shape was the guitar that Butters had lent me. It was a nice one, but not nice enough to keep me from inscribing a little sentence that said THIS MACHINE KILLS ZOMBIES. Butters had approved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I had no musical experience with any instrument, including the kazoo. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Especially</span>
  </em>
  <span> the kazoo. But I had gotten a little boost in my learning thanks to a…</span>
</p><p>
  <span>What was she, anyway? She tried to corrupt me. She wanted me to take over the world. She wanted me to take the coin, be one of her slaves, one of her mindless drones, to kill anyone that old Nicky deemed needed to be killed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I said no.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I had changed her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She gave herself when I needed her to. She saved me, she saved my friends, and she doomed herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I will always be grateful for that.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>My host</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice whispered in my ear, until I realized that she was communicating in my thoughts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hi there. Thought you were dead.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Perhaps I am.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“If you are, then how come you’re here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Perhaps I’m not.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I sighed, not looking up from my guitar. “They’re here,” I announced in my best possessed-three-year old voice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice sighed the long-suffering sigh of dealing with someone who had seen Poltergeist too many times. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I am no ghost</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sure you’re not. As long as you don’t start knocking over stuff like Swayze, we’ll be peaceful.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice was silent. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Your playing has come a long way.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thanks to you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I wish I could teach you in person, my host.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were never really a person. You just kind of resided in my head.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>And yet you mourned me</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I did.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>I do not understand why.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you were my friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But you wanted me gone.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you were my enemy.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The voice laughed, a weary laugh that seemed both exasperated and fond. </span>
  <em>
    <span>You humans. So contradictory.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“For what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>For remembering me.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>My breath caught. “Of course I remember you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Will you always remember me? As a friend or as an enemy?</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She had sacrificed herself for me, and she still doubted her standing in my books. “As a friend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you, my host. </span>
  </em>
  <span>The voice was fading fast. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Thank you, Harry.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>I felt a presence depart. I zoned back in to my guitar playing, but my hands were not playing Smoke On The Water anymore.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They autopiloted themselves across the strings, strumming out a melody that I had never heard before, yet demanded to be played in full. It was beautiful. I played it over and over again. A final gift.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Lasciel’s Song,” I whispered, and a tear fell from my eye.</span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chattanooga Lucy</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Oh my my, Chatanooga Lucy,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Woman, what it is you do to me,</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Forbidden fruit, it sure is juicy </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Got me comin’ around, comin’ around.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sun burst through the windows, directly into my eyes. Curse you, sunlight. I groaned. Groaning in annoyance can make you feel better about anything. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I looked at the clock. 7:30. Maybe groaning wouldn’t be enough. Weeping like an infant is a close second to groaning, especially in the morning. Then I looked down and remembered where I was - a home, protected by enough wards to fry Cthulhu, lying in a bed, with someone on top of me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Karrin Murphy </span>
  <em>
    <span>hrrmph</span>
  </em>
  <span>ed and rolled over, directly onto my chest. She was laying on top of me, and her blonde head was nestled in the crook of my neck. The tip of her toes only went to the bottom of my knees, even though her head was below mine.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was so tiny. And adorable. And she looked so fragile. People thought they could break her easily. But Murph was a fighter, all the way. Whether she was fighting an ogre with a chainsaw, the king of vampires with a Sword, or my idiot brother with a spatula, she would fight to the end. Never surrendering. Never letting her guard down.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I hadn’t seen her let her guard down in years. Not since… well. Not since the Nightmare had dressed up as me and tried to destroy her mind. It wasn’t until a few years later that she stopped looking at me like I would try to do the same. And still, she fought through that. She was the toughest person I had ever met, and I mean that literally. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I wondered about Mavra sometimes. She still was out there somewhere, probably building an army for me to deal with at an inconvenient time. I had threatened her with total extinction the last time she had threatened to blackmail Karrin. She probably thought I was exaggerating. Then I wiped out a couple of vampires, and she realized I wasn't.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now, though, I wasn’t sure I would be able to kill Mavra if she gave me a reason to.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I was pretty sure Karrin would beat me to it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She snorted and nuzzled even closer into my chest. She wore nothing but one of my old Jurassic Park T-shirts. (A little stick-figure of a man was drawn in marker on the shirt, riding the dinosaur in the logo. Thomas swore up, down, sideways, and diagonally that he had not drawn it on.) Her body was tense with muscles, gained from years and years of workouts and brawls. Scars ran up and down her arms. One in particular caught my eye - it was the one from the loup-garou all those years ago. A small, thin white line on her shoulder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Karrin took all of those scars without complaint. All to protect Chicago. To protect the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>To protect me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And what had I given her?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was 7:45 when I looked over at the clock again. On a normal day, she would be up at 6, making breakfast, guzzling coffee, and reviewing cases. These weren’t normal days. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had lost her job as a police officer, her entire life’s work, because she had decided to help me save my daughter. Karrin could have given me some advice and called it a day, but instead, she grabbed a sword that was hopped up on holy caffeine and waded hip-deep into a bunch of vampires. It cost her everything to help me.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She did it without a second thought.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And I could never repay her for that.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I could try, though, in the form of mind-blowing sex.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I told my friends that me and Karrin had finally started going out, the replies varied. Molly hugged me and pretended that I couldn’t see the pain in her eyes as she congratulated us. Michael grinned, clapped me on the shoulder. Thomas rolled his eyes and told me, “You are officially the last person to find out that you two are an item.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kincaid, of all people, sent me a letter after I came back from the dead. Mostly, it was an apology (despite starting off the letter with the sentence “For the record, this was your idea, not mine.”). He talked a bit about Ivy, and I could imagine the proud-papa grin he sported whenever he did. And then, as a PS, he wrote, “And I heard about you and the Murphster. Congrats. Don’t ask about Hawaii.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whatever. They could have Hawaii. Me and her had Chicago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>We had more places, of course. The Nevernever. Mab’s fortress. Chichen Itza. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>We needed some more romantic places. Places that didn’t involve something dying.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I snorted to myself. Like </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> will ever happen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Karrin woke up. She stared at me, her eyes still fogged up, until she focused on my face. She smiled warmly. “Hi there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morning.” I snapped a lazy salute to her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She looked at the clock. “We slept in late, huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So late. We’re like Rip Van Winkle,” I lied. Now I really wanted to start crying, but I figured she’d never let me live it down if I did.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She rolled off me, stood up next to the bed, and stretched. Now </span>
  <em>
    <span>that</span>
  </em>
  <span> was a great view. “I’m making coffee,” she said, yawning. “You want some?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Have I ever said no to coffee?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good answer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before she could leave, I leaned forward and grabbed her arm. “Hey, Murph?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Karrin looked at me and cocked an eyebrow. “Yeah?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I pulled her to me and kissed her on the forehead. “Thanks.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Everything.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She took my face in her hands and kissed me on the lips gently. “I’m not leaving you anytime soon, Harry. Mostly because you’d die within five minutes without me, and I can’t have that on my conscience.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, come on. Give me at least ten minutes.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“...Seven.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t think I’d last seven minutes without you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bingo.” She walked out of the room, giving me a smirk that dared me to follow her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I walked out of the room, out of my thoughts, and into our future together.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Harry x Murphy for LIFE. Butcher better not fuck them over somehow in Peace Talks.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Mixed Drinks About Feelings</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for the late chapter. My job starts this evening, and the writing demon hasn't possessed me for a while, until I saw the Peace Talks trailer. See the end for me fangirling about that. Just finished Cold Days, and the similarities between Thomas's inner demon and the Winter Mantle were too good for me to miss. Stay safe out there, y'all.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>
    <span>Turn on a neon light</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>At least make it feel like night</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Put on some this or that</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>And maybe I won't feel so bad</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Need a little background noise</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>To drown out this little voice</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Running circles 'round my brain</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Screaming louder than the pain</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>“You would not.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Totally would.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I took a swig of Mac’s ale. “He would drop you before you could say ‘Maybe It’s Maybelline’.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thomas sipped the whiskey in his flask. “I could kick his ass.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How would you do it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“His ass. How would you kick it?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thomas frowned. “Uh. Sneak into his house, ambush him with a kukri.” He slammed his palm on top of the bar. “Over, done.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Where does he live?” I asked, taking another drink. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I dunno.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How would you find out?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I could ask Lara. She’d find out.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you really think anyone knows anything about him that he hasn’t already decided to spill?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Okay, fair enough. New plan.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He bit his lip and furrowed his brow as he leaned against the bar. That subtle movement caused his white shirt to tighten even closer to him - which, to be honest, didn’t seem possible. Thomas always seemed to vaccuum-seal his shirt to his chest. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I had once rolled my eyes and told him that he was cutting off circulation to his brain. He had told me that at least his brain was fully functioning, unlike mine, “because otherwise, you would have asked out Murphy years ago.” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The girls behind him in the bar started checking him out - not subtly looking, but full-blown gawking, as they always seem to do. They were tourists - not of any magical ability, like the rest of Mac’s customers, but Muggles who had seen this quaint hole in the ground and decided that they wanted a drink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They’d be gone before tomorrow, decided that they wanted no part in the slightly-spooky atmosphere of Mac’s pub. But they had gotten a good look at one of Chicago’s least eligible incubi.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Honestly, I’m not even sure that Thomas did it on purpose. He mixed both a supernaturally-gifted presence with an all-too-normal laid-back nature. Girls flocked to him, and a couple of guys too, but he had eyes for exactly one woman, who was waiting for him at home.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If God was real (and who knows, I’ve seen stranger things than the Almighty), Justine was proof that He had a sick and twisted sense of irony. There was Thomas Raith - perhaps one of the single most charming people on the planet, could have and did have anyone he ever wanted as a lover, and he had settled down early with a girl that was absolutely crazy over him. Then there was me, who had maybe three relationships in my life, and they had all ended badly. Now here I was, damn near forty, and I had finally found someone, and even then, that had taken close to fifteen years, and even now, I still called her by her last name occasionally.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Believe me, I don't think I’m ugly. I had gotten a few appreciative glances (although there were a lot more glances along the lines of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Oh my god, the giraffe escaped from the zoo</span>
  </em>
  <span>). That didn’t even come close to Thomas. Three times in a month, random girls that walked past us on the sidewalk smacked him on the ass. Movie stars didn’t get the kind of attention that he got.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Of course, not all of it was his fault. He had a little demon inside of him (a demon that apparently disliked being called “a hamster on a wheel”) that caused his glamour. And that little bastard was a strange mixture of hungry and horny. It demanded lust, and it forced Thomas to get it. For years upon years, he had fended it off, only letting it get the bare minimum, until finally, he got into a good system. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then some Native American legend ruined it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>For a few years, he was absolutely dangerous to be around. My apprentice could barely control herself. That was more willpower than anyone else had. All the work he had put into himself, ruined. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Then I, well, for lack of a better word, died, and the impossible happened.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He snapped out of it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Now, here we were, two almost-normal brothers, just hanging out and drinking various forms of alcohol.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Five years ago, I wouldn’t have understood how he did it, but now, I had a pretty good idea of what he was going through at all times.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As I noticed the girl behind us, a part of me idly thought, </span>
  <em>
    <span>She should be yours. You could own her. Why not take her now?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Then a vaguely-animalistic rage exploded in my brain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Another part of me frantically beat down the first part. I winced and hoped that no one noticed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Winter Mantle was a part of me, whether I liked it or not, just like the hamster was a part of him, and there was nothing either of us could do about it except suppress it. Which we did, because we knew what would happen if we didn’t.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>God. I had had a literal fallen angel in my brain and it was less annoying than whatever was going on in there right now.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thomas snapped his fingers. “Got it. Drone strike.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I stared at him, eyebrow raised.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You think it’s overkill?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“I think it’s underkill. I have an idea about how to find out who would win this deathmatch.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mac meandered over, taking my empty glass. I asked, “Hey, Mac. Thomas here thinks he could beat you in a fight. You think he could?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mac gave me a long, hard look, then looked at Thomas, who seemed very uncomfortable all of a sudden. He gave his head a tiny shake, then walked away, replacing my bottle with two more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Well, that settles that. Mac wins.” I grabbed the ale and took a long drink.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thomas conceded. “Yeah, okay, fine, he probably does.” He looked at me with disgust. “Still don’t understand how you drink </span>
  <em>
    <span>warm ale</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You still haven’t tried it?” I asked incredulously. “You gotta get over yourself. Look, he even brought you an extra bottle and everything.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thomas rolled his eyes, popped the cap and without breaking eye contact with me, chugged half of it. Then his eyes widened, he looked at the half-empty bottle, he shot a look at Mac, and chugged the rest of the bottle. “Oh my </span>
  <em>
    <span>god</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Right?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mac brought over another bottle and nodded to us. I pointed at Thomas. “He’s paying.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Five minutes ago, I would have argued, but I think we’re gonna need more alcohol than you can afford,” Thomas agreed, still slack jawed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Mac grunted and walked away. I held up my glass. “To never being able to beat Mac in a fight.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Thomas held his up. “To the warmest of ales.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>We clinked bottles, then we both said, “To brothers.”</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>BATTLE GROUND BABY! SEVEN DAYS AFTER MY BIRTHDAY! AND A MONTH INTO COLLEGE! OH MY GOD I AM NOT GONNA LAST THAT LONG</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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